timber ovenbird If love is a tree that you bring down in pieces with a saw made from the bright blade of your reason, did we ever fall? I wanted love that made a sound. Love that crashed into the understory and sent birds flying from the catastrophe of leaves and heaving roots. I wanted you to scream “timber!” as the world exploded into slivers and sparks. You stacked split logs in neat rows. You organized them by size. You burned them one by one in the brazier buried deep in your chest, whatever heat they generated insulated by thick layers of logic, abrasive as asbestos. I breathed deep, took silence into my lungs. You oiled my hinges so I could open without a single creak or groan. Now I’m coughing up poems, black with charcoal dust, and spitting them into my trembling palms. I don’t know how long I have to live, but this death rattle is loud. Listen. 260815 what's it to you? who go blather from